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heartsofminds · 4 months ago

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i'm calling just to hear you scream - part ii.

“Free means “fuck.” She’s gonna fuck us, Sugar and you don’t even fucking care!” or it's your first day at The Bear (or is it The Beef still?), Richie is convinced you're a fed, and Carmen may or may not hate your guts.

A/N: well surprise, surprise! here's part two of i'm calling just to hear you scream. definitely more of a filler chapter before everything starts to implode and get more serious and downright grimey, but i hope you enjoy!

The shadows created by the awnings of the sandwiched businesses chill your bones while the Sun makes your backside sticky beneath your sweater and light spring jacket. Chicago is beautiful in March, but always full of surprises.

One day comes an icy snowstorm that adds to the gray slush collecting on the side of the street and the next a blissful sixty-one degrees that gaslights everyone into walking around with shorts on because it’s just “so warm.”

You can’t revel in the tranquility for much longer. Not when you’re pretty sure you’re coming up on the address Natalie emailed you two nights ago. 628 West Wager Street sits prettily in between an old antique shop and a Chicago Cubs merchandise store that has definitely seen better days. Despite no sign hanging on the window and the glass completely shielded from outside eyes by brown butcher paper, it somehow looks like it belongs; the younger sibling of a once booming and vibrant street scene.

Being outside of the door is a feeling that fills you with both anxiety and uncertainty. You know you’re in the right spot but you don’t feel like you are; not when you can’t hear any noise coming from any of the three storefronts that stand in front of you. You’re made even more uneasy when you see the five by eleven sheet of insulated foil wrap with capital letters written in Sharpie taped to the front window.

The Beef is closed. Thank you for your patronage. The Bear is coming.

The nerves start to hit you even harder. All Natalie had mentioned over the phone and through your frequent emails have been about needing help with a restaurant. The name of the aforementioned restaurant had never been disclosed and its location remained a mystery until this morning when you got an email with the unspoken directions that Apple Maps would omit. There’s nothing more embarrassing than doing a consult and not knowing any of the details. It’s even more humiliating when the feeling of being made a fool seems inevitable.

Your arm refuses to move forward and yank the door open in case this is some sick prank. You half expect Becca to be hiding behind it with the “good ole boys” crew that is full of Senior and Junior partners at your law firm; their only purpose is to further humiliate and belittle you more than they already do on a day-to-day basis at the office.

It’s a ridiculous thing to think that someone would care enough about you and your shame to do that, you know, but it’s the only way you can rationalize your brain warning you not to touch that door. Your eyes catch your reflection and suddenly you want the concrete sidewalk to swallow you whole. You take in how your navy blue pantsuit engulfs you and how your work bag seems to get heavier and heavier as it hangs solemnly at your side.

You don’t belong here.

The itch to turn around and run back to the train as fast as you could possibly manage crosses your mind, but the shattering of the quiet oasis around you interrupts that thought before it can materialize.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up!” you hear a voice scream.

“Do you ever realize you don’t know fuckin’ everything!” another one screams back.

The sound of a wall being hit accompanies the shouts as well as numerous other voices joining in on the cacophony the verbal altercation created.

Call it a hunch (or just having enough common sense), but you definitely are in the right place and there are certainly people inside. The scary part of not knowing is over. The absolutely horrifying part of having to see where you fit in is pending.

Your fingers grip the solid metal door handle and you rip it open. The resounding squeal it emits makes you want the floor to swallow you up whole. The chaos of screaming shouting and yelling start to pause before the sound of the sledgehammer hitting the wall a second time interrupts it and sends it into a full frenzy once again.

The world seems to be moving in slow motion and your words are caught in your throat. You’ve never seen chaos like this before, but you’ve definitely felt the way you’re currently feeling every day for the past five years. Faces you don’t know, a nagging feeling of responsibility, a dire need to do the best job you possibly can and not fucking up and not pissing anyone off, and yet no idea where to even start.

“If I already fuckin’ told you you were tearing the wrong wall down why the actual fuck would you do it again!” a strained scream bounces off the walls.

You jolt at the echo. The current lack of infrastructure and an igloo of scaffolding tarp amplifies the sound by three thousand decibels.

He can’t see your face because his back is turned toward you, but the temperament and the mop of curls tell you the obvious. Carmen. Natalie’s brother and shareholder that she had subtly warned you about in a half-joking, half-not tone when you had spoken on the phone the other day.

“To prove a fucking point,” a lankier taller man scoffs back. Richie. Their cousin, not cousin (which you don’t really understand, but you chalk it up to a deduction that not everything is meant to make sense), and the absolute bane of Natalie and Carmen’s existence at times. She had also warned you about him on the phone. “Even if I’m wrong you never fail to always think you’re fucking right like a – like a fucking baby! You walk around here pissed the fuck off and fucking changing everything and makin’ it everyone else’s fucking problem –”

Carmen lunges at him and two other men from the crowd almost pick him up from the floor to prevent him from tackling Richie.

“Everyone else’s prob – You’re my fucking problem! You’re my fuckin’ problem and all you know how to do is fuck up and make everything fuckin’ worse!”

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuckin’ pissy ass pamper cry baby.”

Carmen tries his hardest to wrangle himself out of the hold he’s currently in. Sydney, a genius and the Lord’s prayer (according to Natalie, also), clumps herself near him as he remains twisting and turning like a toddler fighting a parent’s protective hold through a temper tantrum.

“Chill, chill, chill. Stop. Just stop,” she gently coos. Her hand claps the shoulder of one of the men holding him up. You can see the gentle squeeze it gives to provide silent comfort, but you wonder if the softness in her tone is to deescalate the situation or to help regulate herself.

He’s dragged out to what you can assume is the backdoor and it slams with a cadence that demands attention. A sharp thud can be heard five seconds later accompanied by various, “Yo, what the fuck, dude?”’s.

He must have kicked the door. He definitely kicked the door.

Your body continues to stay frozen in the bare entryway. The survival skills you’ve adapted kick into full effect. Don’t make a move. Don’t make a sound. Do not piss anyone else off.

The aftermath of commotion and chatter fills the room and leaves no space for you. You have half the mind to put your hand back on the handle and dip out before anyone notices. You’ve been here all of three minutes and you feel as if it’s been a year. The shouting and the hurtful insults and the frequent use of the word “fuck” send a blush down your chest. You’re embarrassed because you’re starting to think that you can’t handle it. You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough.

What the fuck were you thinking even coming here?

The push of your thigh against the door causes the rusted metal hinge to groan again. The sound is indiscernible from relief or protest; staying or leaving. Either option makes your skin crawl. The sudden redirection of eyes casts a dome of silence and everyone zones in on the thing that wasn’t there before: you.

No one moves and for a second, you don’t think anyone blinks. The realization of someone infiltrating a rather robust and rage-filled argument occurring at nine in the morning sinks in before the vein of awkwardness begins to bleed. You know the logical thing to do is to introduce yourself; to force a plaster-like smile on your face and extend your hand and ask how everyone is doing.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Natalie can feel the alarm bells going off in her head when her eyes float to your figure. You look worried; a flash of pensiveness and subtle fear floods your facial expression and she starts to panic. Opening a restaurant is beyond humbling and asking Becca Cantor for her help was a last-ditch effort to contain the smallest bit of confidence she had left. Besides, she would rather roll over and die than you to walk out that door, tell Becca about how they’re sledgehammering walls with a gang of lunatics at the restaurant, and somehow get a call from Uncle Jimmy that turns into a stern talking to about how they’re just dicking around with his money and how it’s a waste of time.

You absolutely, positively can not walk out that door.

She’ll make sure of it. Even if it’s the last thing she ever fucking does.

Her feet carry her faster than what her brain is aware of. Her eyes have to catch up with the scenery passing her in a blur as she walks up to you. Seeing her face calms you down in a way that is small but not unnoticed. She has kind eyes and a calm demeanor. This is the kind of client that gives you confidence. This is the kind of client that brings you joy. This is the kind of work you were made to do.

“Oh, hey! You found it!” she cheers. Her hand brushes against your bicep in a welcome.

The pool of spit inside your mouth gets swallowed as you curtly nod. “Yeah! Yeah, I thought Apple Maps led me astray but I was definitely in the right spot.”

Pretending not to notice the curious gazes behind your interaction proves difficult, but it’s not something you’re not used to. Working in an office means there’s always someone in your business and you always feel like you’re under constant surveillance.

At least this time, the threat of humiliation seems considerably low. The obvious danger of being chased out of here with a sledgehammer is considerably high though.

“How are you doing?” you ask quietly. A conversation of niceties always makes things less awkward and gives you some leeway for at least learning who the owners are of the staring eyes.

“Yo, who the fuck is this, Suge?” Richie asks, wiping his plaster-covered hands on his shirt. His face still harbors a flush that had yet to dissipate. He also has kind eyes but you know from the moments you witnessed prior that he can turn his kindness off and on instantaneously.

Natalie rolls her eyes and huffs. The damage control that she’s doing is not going to plan. She had grown up around cursing and incredibly forward questioning and knows that not everyone else had, and from the disastrous commotion you stumbled into five minutes prior and the way your eyes show more of the whites than the irises, the crudeness needs to take a backseat.

At least enough of one to ensure that you’re not about to turn around and bolt out of that shitty ass door that she had been bitching at Richie to oil for the past two months.

She moves to stand next to you and puts her arm around your shoulder. Natalie knows that the second they find out that you’re an attorney all hell will break loose. Something about accusing you of being “fed” and coming to rip the “fundamentals of democracy” out from under them brews in her mind and she gags a little at the thought of having to diffuse yet another shit show before ten in the morning.

The unwelcome taste of acid tinging the back of her tongue makes her take a mental note to ask her OB about being so nauseous.

“This is our attorney,” she starts and begins to ignore the groans coming from the crowd in front of her, “She’s gonna help us with some...things.”

Richie scoffs and throws his hands up. He wipes at his nose with his forearm and some of the plaster residue makes a home on the tip of it.

“You brought a fuckin’ fed in here, Sugar?” His eyebrows rise to his hairline and it doesn’t take a genius to know how he doesn’t want you here at all. “I told you I had this under wraps. The fuck do we need a fed up our ass for if we’re just tearin’ down walls and shit.”

You sigh and Natalie can feel the anxiety radiating off of you. She’s starting to absorb it, but the fight in her to make this right persists.

“Well, first of all, the fed has a fucking name, you dick,” she snaps, “And you’ve been slinging beef sandwiches your entire adult life so the fuck do we need you for?”

Richie exhales as the rest of the people around him start to snicker.

“Damn, Papa. You need to pipe down,” whom you guess is Tina from some of the people who had been mentioned to you through the phone calls (and there’s so many goddamn people in here for it to be out of business and you’re sure you’ll need to start doing flashcards every night to remember who they are).

“Thanks, T,” Natalie and Richie chirp in unison; their voices capturing the different emotions of annoyance and triumph differently.

Some more harsh words and excited chatter served with a side of frustration occurs and you’re so checked out that you don’t even realize that no one has asked you directly what your name is. The animated voices and exaggerated body movement swell the room even more; pushing you outside and three blocks away so vividly through emotion that you have to check to make sure your feet haven’t moved.

No one has asked who you are and which firm you came from. No one has asked how you are. And still, no one has asked you what your name is.

They continue to talk and joke and yell and you start to feel yourself shrinking in.

Smaller, smaller, smaller.

Gone.

You know that it’s not personal. It’s almost never personal, but the mind tends to conjure up ideas when it can’t make sense of the feelings it detects from the body.

Maybe it had just gotten thrown to the wayside. Maybe they were making room for direct conversation with you to occur later when things weren’t so awkward. Maybe they don’t hate you and think you’re the worst and may actually like you.

But then maybe they don’t.

Maybe they just don’t give a fuck.

In your catatonic daze, you hear an offhanded remark about how you look like a high schooler who just waltzed in after a Model UN convention and that Natalie has no idea what the fuck she was doing. The laughter that follows highlights those who actively agree and the agitated huffs of frustration show those who silently concur.

In any other circumstance, you probably would have joined them in laughter or returned a smart-alecky response or accompanied them in making fun of you, but this isn’t a different circumstance. You’re in a construction zone on a Saturday morning, overdressed with a pantsuit on, and have not a clue on how hospitality law works, and the facts leave a non-disputable conclusion.

You’re the odd one out and you can’t get an invite to be even no matter how hard you try.

You truly don’t belong here.

“Richie, have you ever considered that maybe we need to do it right this time?” Natalie asks, her tone dripping annoyance, “Her being here clearly doesn’t affect your ability to be an idiot, so you can go fuck yourself because she’s staying.”

Richie narrows his eyes at her. His lanky limbs flail as he attempts to make his emotions seen without having to verbalize them. Natalie has had it with his stubbornness and she knows that she might be puking her guts out in about fifteen minutes. The great debate has to have an ending in sight soon.

Besides, she knows that Richie’s apprehension toward the whole thing is because he’s resisting change and trying to get under Carmen’s skin. It doesn’t matter how great she knows her brother can make something. Richie will try and put a pin in it before it becomes something he no longer recognizes.

Just like their dad. Somewhat like Mikey. Especially like Carmen (even though she knows he doesn’t recognize his own stubbornness yet).

“Jesus, that’s fuckin’ horse shit if I’ve heard it,” he sneers, “And I happen to be very intelligent and very charming – and FYI – I also know how a fucking business works and all this “foo-foo,” “high dining”, microgreen shit –”

She holds up her hand to him and rolls her eyes. She’s surprised she hasn’t been able to see the back of her skull yet. “It’s fine dining, but whatever.”

“Fuck all the way off. Fine dining, microgreen shit is a dishonor to our roots and I will not stand for it.”

Natalie’s hand smacks down on a metal rolling table with a rusty toolbox and a wrinkled pad of Post-it notes. The sounds of clanky metal snap everyone’s attention to her. Natalie was never mean. She was always sugary sweet and ooey gooey; trying to be in everyone’s good graces at all times and forever attempting to fix things before they had the potential to be broken. But she could also brush the sugar off and leave a bitter and tongue-curdling hurt if she got pushed to her limit.

She’s not had a full night’s rest since she got asked (more like begged, but she’s not one for bragging) to be their project manager, she can’t bare to stomach anything nowadays without wrestling the urge to puke it back up, and the fucking pregnancy hormones are filling her with unexplained bouts of rage as of late.

She is not one to be fucked with and Richie knows that. He just always wants to poke the bear.

“Well that’s fuckin’ sad that your “roots” are tied to an Italian beef shop, but that doesn’t change my mind whatsoever,” she pushes past him with more force than she intended, guiding you along with her to wherever she had in mind, “You can bitch and moan and holler all you want but you’re not the one losing your fucking mind over fucking paperwork so whatever other unhelpful and extremely negative shit you have to say can get shoved up your ass and you can get fucked because I’m not putting up with it.”

Richie is rendered speechless – a phenomenon that does not occur very often.

She turns to you and gives you a friendly smile. Her hand rests softly above yours that are bawled into anxious fists. “Let’s go into the office so we can talk some more. Are you okay with that?”

You’re still frozen in equal parts shock and fear; too scared to say no.

“Umm. . .yeah. Yeah, we can go to the back,” you swallow and she brisks you away to what you assume is where all the paperwork is housed that they need help making sense of resides.

You arrive outside of a closed wooden door and Natalie steps in front of it, her arms coming down to hug the hinges of it in a way that makes you slightly worried. “So I know that you’re not a hospitality attorney and I know that you’re doing this for free and you’re totally at liberty to say you want out the second you say the word,” she speaks softly.

You know that she’s starting to panic. Your feelings and her feelings are starting to merge into one; two halves of the same whole – people pleasers.

“But it’s. . .a lot and I don’t know even know where to start and this is legitimately driving me insane so –”

Her anxiety starts to break your heart. The pang in your chest makes your decision for you. No matter how uncomfortable you are, you know you need to do the right thing out of the kindness of your own heart.

“No, it’s fine!” you cut her off, “I’ll take a look and we’ll figure it out. Nothing you have here is too much. I can promise you that.”

Ocean blue irises engulf you with sentiment and appreciation through their gaze. Natalie’s shoulders sag before her hand finds the gold doorknob. A deep breath adds to the noise of chatter and squeaks of the faulty fire alarm in the hallway. The oak door opens with a wheeze and a groan; stuck because of the swell its wood causes from the constant fluctuation of temperatures in Chicago.

“Well,” she begins, “Here it is.”

The mountains of cardboard boxes all labeled with acronyms and doodled with nonsense send the pit in your stomach down to your toes and through the center of the Earth.

Holy fucking shit.

Natalie notices your shock and starts to go back into “fix-it” mode. She hasn’t eaten at all today, but she figures that the emotions bubbling up and down at a fixed and constant rate are what fill her insides and are making her nauseous. Bile starts to make its way up her throat but she forces it back down.

She’ll be damned if this goes even more sour than how she knows it has.

“It’s a lot and it’s more sorting things and making them make sense than doing actual work? Like you’re gonna be doing work but it’s not rocket science. . . Not that being an attorney isn’t hard! My husband is one and I. . .need to shut up now,” she word vomits. Despite the apparent fact that she’s panicking, the sound of her voice is soothing and the gentle hand she places on the junction between the base of your neck and your shoulder does wonders to ground you. “And there’s no rush to have all of it done. It’s a work at your own pace kinda thing?”

You both know that she’s fibbing about the last part.

The frantic text at 11 PM last week and the hour-long phone call debriefs you had yesterday and three days before say otherwise. This is her compromising and making her needs smaller. This is her being like you and you being like her; being like each other. Digging yourself into holes to help others no matter the effort – no matter the pain.

“No, I’m doing this because I want to. Just let me know exactly what you need and we can get to it as soon as possible.”

You know that you must have said the golden word because as soon as the statement leaves your mouth, Natalie whips out her phone and starts reading off a list she had compiled of all things that have some link to the legal world.

Contracts. Permits. Tax revenue sheets. Paystubs. Workers Compensation. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. City Ordinances. Chicago royally fucking anyone who dares to open a business, really.

The sad part is that this should scare you. This should make you want to run out of here and never look back and purposely take the long way to get somewhere if you knew where you were headed would cross paths with the restaurant.

But you don’t do any of that, and the buzz of finally doing something that you know is helping people overpowers the migraine of stress you can feel looming over you the second you agree to help them out.

“You’re amazing,” she says, eyes twinkling with admiration.

Your cheeks turn a shade of baby pink that you hope she can’t see. You’ve never taken well to flattery.

Richie’s knuckles give a soft knock on the door and it opens before either of you can think to welcome another presence. His gaze finds both of you fist-deep into the first box labeled “Cocksuckers: For IRS - 1987.” You already know that he’s not related to the Berzattos by blood, but the beautiful blue eyes make you question that fact. He gives a sheepish smile almost to apologize for his interruption and you think he’s about to apologize before he opens his mouth and says, “Suge, your dashing baby brother is bout to blow a fuse because the fed is here.”

Natalie stops what she’s doing. Her hands come to rest on the flimsy cardboard box and she throws her head back to eye the ceiling. If she can count the row of six vertically, maybe she can slow her breathing and calm herself down enough to spare Carmy the chewing out of a lifetime.

One.

“Sugar!”

Two.

“Get the fuck off me!”

Three.

“I said get the fuck off me! I need to see my fuckin’ sister!”

Four.

“Sugar!”

Five.

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

Six.

“Natalie!”

Her brother appears in front of her disheveled and angry. Even though she’s only five years older than he is, she always sees him as the little baby she used to put in her strollers and push around for years until he got too big and too “grown” to think playing with his older sister was cool. Years spent with him also meant years studying him; knowing his ticks down to the smallest one and learning how he expresses every emotion.

It was the only way she survived living in that house until she was eighteen.

Dealing with an angry Carmen is nothing in comparison to dealing with an angry Michael or even attempting to console a slightly agitated mother.

Besides, Carmy’s anger, while often misguided and very explosive, was never unexpected. He always has a tell and there’s always a few seconds before he completely comes unglued. Adult temper tantrums are shit shows, and quite frankly she’s fed up with having to diffuse one of his every couple of hours as of late.

Her face starts to fall when she sees Carmen’s left eye begins to create that deep crinkle it does when he gets pissed. He starts to wrinkle his nose and she knows that he’s about to start screaming.

Richie lets out a whistle before pushing Carmen’s head in a playful yet agitated manner. Before his hand can be swatted at, he jumps out of the way and joins in on a distant conversation about his daughter’s last dance recital.

He has a smug grin on his face that Carmen wants nothing more than to slap off him. He knew that touching him would provoke him even more.

Richie always has to poke the bear.

Always.

Carmen tries to contain his anger the best he can. Even though he’s totally against the idea of having you in the building, he knows there’s jackshit he can do about it now. Sydney said yes, Natalie sought you out, and Uncle Jimmy thought the idea was brilliant. The vote was three against one and he knows that all he can do is go fuck himself. So much for everyone promising not to make decisions about the restaurant without his okay.

It’s not like his credit will be the one that’s fucked if this place turns to shit.

His arm stretches to hold the side of the door’s hinge and supports his body weight as he leans to the right. “You hired a fucking attorney and didn’t tell me?” he snaps. His face pinches in a way that brings his nose, eyes, and mouth closer together; a face their mom used to make before she came totally unglued.

You have your back turned toward the door he’s looming in. Something about being targeted makes you want to be blind to it; to shut your eyes as tightly as you can and will it away. You know that the way he’s acting has everything to do with him and nothing to do with you, but you can’t help it. When you feel out of place, every action to push you further out feels personal.

“She’s doing it for free,” Natalie scoffs, putting a lid back on one of the boxes and crossing her arms over her chest. She would offer up more information, but what would be the use if Carmy is as wound up as he is?

“Free means “fuck.” She’s gonna fuck us, Sugar, and you don’t even fucking care!” he screeches, seemingly uncaring that you’re right in front of him and that he’s biting his sister’s head off as if it’s nothing.

You start to pull files out of the boxes faster than you were before. The distraction is needed because you know that if you listen too intently to what else is being said, you’ll start internalizing it later.

Nothing with you. Everything with him. Nothing with you. Everything with him.

“No. She is not gonna fuck us,” she pushes a finger into his chest and her nostrils flaring, “You’re gonna fuck us because you’re being so stubborn and stupid and can’t have a goddamn conversation like an adult.”

His chest pushes deeper into his sister’s finger. “You calling me a baby? You calling me a fucking baby?”

Carmen usually isn’t one to pick a fight in his everyday life, but once he gets started he refuses to back down. The rational part of his brain knows that he’s going overboard but he can’t help himself. The rage inside has nowhere to go and this whole thing is really pissing him off. He’s so fucking sick of everyone acting like he’s too immature and irresponsible to handle things.

Natalie’s finger comes out to become a full palm. “Well then stop the yelling. Stop the pissy pamper attitude. Stop wasting our fucking time and just admit that you’re way over your fucking head and don’t know everything.”

Carmen balls his hands into fists and licks his lips to prevent him from saying something really fucking mean. He knows that Natalie is just trying to help but she always is, and it fucking sucks when she always saves the day even when he doesn’t want her to. The restaurant was supposed to be theirs; supposed to be all him and Mikey and everyone who made them into the people they are. It was never supposed to be his. It was never supposed to be his when he has not a goddamn clue what he’s doing and Natalie driving herself borderline insane trying to proactively fix everything before it turns to shit.

He doesn’t know what to say because she’s right. Sugar is always right and Carmen is always wrong and he wishes Michael was here to balance them out; to add a third option so it wasn’t so split.

But he’s not here. He won’t be here. He never really was here.

“Fuck!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

“Fuck!” Natalie shouts back.

Argument over.

His shoes slide on the floor with ease and he tries to steady his breathing. His arms let go of the door frame and his head hangs with the dissatisfaction of still housing a boulder of anger.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, voice growing smaller as he walks away. A loud clash of hollowed metal is heard shortly after. “Fuck!”

“Punching the lockers doesn’t get rid of the fact you’re a little bitch, Cousin.”

Richie has to poke the bear.

Always.